


What It Feels Like Not To Hurt

by robotboy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Play, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Post-Season/Series 02, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 01:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17335733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: So. This is a 9k slow burn watersports fic. That's a thing that now exists in this fandom. But it's mostly about Silver recovering in the warship cabin and working out how much of his humanity is tied to humiliation. To echo my esteemed colleague purplecelery: 'I'm gonna gently suggest that anyone who's not usually into this take a gander anyway because you might be surprised.'





	What It Feels Like Not To Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my cheer squad for enabling this. You know who you are.

For days and nights he can’t count, he does nothing but hurt. Pain drags him from sleep, and dulls his waking, trapping him in a state where neither can satisfy. Rest, Howell told him, while Silver stared at his face as if through a spyglass, closeand distant at the same time, murky and black at the edges. As if this was rest, when being pulled from unconsciousness leaves him tireder than when he’d blacked out.

With every movement he is reminded of what he is now. It feels like _blinking_ tugs on his leg. It gets to be that he can’t remember what it felt like not to hurt. As if the pain creeps into his memories and stains them all, as it promises to stain his future.

And this bed. He’s trapped on this fucking bed, in sheets that will surely never stop stinking of his sweat, sick at the mercy of the warship’s heavy sway. Above deck, he could compensate, even sitting, he thinks, but down here every toss and turn of the waves surprises him, each tilt of the horizon out his window only coming after a heave in his stomach. Not that he can eat. He throws up the water he hasn’t sweated out, only to have Flint steadily ply another cup into him.

Flint is the only fixed point, a solid shadow that moves around the cabin in patterns that Silver can follow. Here is Flint planning on a chart; there is Flint writing in the log. Here is Flint fast asleep in his bed; there is Flint bringing his dinner to the cabin as if it will compel Silver to eat by association. Here is Flint tilting Silver’s head up to help another cup of water past his lips; there is Flint curled tightly against the door and weeping.

Silver doesn’t begrudge him this, or the nightmares, or even the occasional conversation Flint strikes up. Equally, Flint doesn’t ever complain about Silver waking himself up with his own screams, or the endless rustling as he tries to find a position that hurts less, or the litany of complaints Silver mutters to keep himself distracted.

After a while, he starts to sleep deeply enough that he can call what comes afterwards _waking up._ It is followed shortly by the memory of what happened crashing back into his consciousness. Panic swoops through him and he’s upright, gasping and pulling the blanket off and trying to crawl away from his own leg. He’s crammed himself into the corner, pressed against the glass with his fingers clawing at one of the panes. The shadow of his hand makes a spider’s shape on the sheets. He blinks at it, briefly startled more by that than by the place his left foot used to be.

It must be dawn. They are sailing west. Flint is in bed, not yet risen for the day. Silver squints and realises Flint is looking back at him.

‘Morning,’ Silver says. An observation, more than a greeting. An expression of surprise: how novel, to wake up in the morning.

‘It is,’ Flint acknowledges, swinging himself out of the bed. ‘I haven’t seen you sit up so quickly in a while.’

This seems to remind Silver’s body to ache, a whole series of complaints starting from his hip and radiating through every muscle grown dull from disuse. He cringes, pulling a face at Flint as if to hold him at fault. Flint grimaces sympathetically, at least, and goes about dressing himself. Silver watches with envy as Flint gets into trousers, boots, belt, jacket, and finally the rings he slides over his knuckles, twisting each one and flexing his fingers to settle them in place for the day. He departs without a word once dressed. Silver has worn nothing but a long shirt since the attack. He’d like trousers—for that matter he’d like to _need_ a pair of boots—but getting them over the wound was impossible. Even the shirt he has forfeited when Howell or Flint confiscates it to have the sweat washed out of it, presumably by some dutiful crewman.

Today, he has his shirt. It smells fairly clean, Silver notices, which suggests he really did sleep better. Flint knocks twice on the door, under some kind of impression that Silver might have anything to be private about, and enters with breakfast. He puts bread on the crate beside Silver’s bed, and pours him a cup of water.

‘Ready to eat something?’ Flint asks, nodding toward the bread. He’s got a roll of his own that he’s tearing into as he settles in his chair, feet kicked up.

‘Captains orders?’ Silver asks, picking up the bread between thumb and forefinger.

‘Captains’ question,’ Flint corrects him. ‘Have the water, at least.’

The water, when compared to the bread, is more appealing. Silver wonders if this was Flint’s strategy.

He braces one arm on the wall to mask any shaking that might seize him while Flint’s watching. With the other hand he brings the cup to his mouth. Flint may as well have drawn it from a mountain spring. Silver gulps down every drop of it, letting it cool him. It’s been so long since he’s been able to stomach anything that the cup feels like a feast.

He sighs when he’s finished, setting the cup down and letting his body familiarise itself with having anything inside it. It feels like he can breathe easier, like a cupful of water has quenched the last of his fever. He feels so bold as to pick up the bread and nibble it. Glancing up, he realises Flint is watching him and puts the bread back down. Not out of spite, he insists to himself, but sensation: it’s more than he’s tasted in days, and his mouth is immediately dry again. He reaches hesitantly for the cup, too proud to ask, but Flint seems to have guessed the problem and refills it without a word. This time, Silver drinks slowly, savouring the way it loosens his throat, and all the parts of himself he has held so tightly for so long. Flint leaves the jug resting on the barrel before he departs for the deck.

Silver doesn’t drink any more. He stares out at the waves, chopped and bouncing in the warship’s path. On other ships he’s sailed, a man with a sharp eye might spot dolphins playing in the wake. There are no dolphins today: the only thing playing with the waves is sunlight. Silver watches that instead.

Of course, even a pleasure so small as water will extract its price from him. His body has made so many demands of late, he had almost forgotten this simple one.

There is a bucket on the floor near his bed. It’s close by the crate, located near Silver’s head, since the only thing his body has had lately to empty from itself is bile. Circumstances have changed. He inches himself to the edge of the mattress, biting his lip through the sting of every movement. The blanket has tangled around his thighs on the journey. He stops, trying to unwind the fabric without jostling the wound. Eventually he gets free, and now the quiet necessity has become an urgent one. He gets as close as he can to the edge. His toes almost touch the floor and god, _god,_ how good it would be to set his foot down again. He thinks, perhaps, balanced on right foot and left hand, he can get himself close to the edge. He nudges the bucket closer with his toes, and pain sears up his leg. Tears spring from the corner of his eyes and a bleat of pain escapes him.

There’s no earthly way he can manage this without making a mess of it. There should be no shame left in him after everything he’s been through. But it’s only made him cling tighter to the last few shreds of dignity he can find. And he would rather throw himself out the window than face the threat of pity from the men, who would likely see it as some honour to mop up urine. Perhaps they’d bottle it for talismans. His grimace twists into a snarl. It’s not the men’s cabin. It’s Flint’s. And to be something that awakens pity in James Flint, that would be something no longer human. That would be a creature best put out of its misery.

It must be an hour he sits on the edge, until the strain in his arms has outweighed the strain in his belly. He was not consciously waiting for Flint to arrive, any more than he ever is, but after two knocks Flint arrives regardless. He casts a curious glance at Silver on his way to the desk, where he grabs a notebook and turns back toward the door.

‘Captain.’

Silver tilts his head back, his cheeks burning and his eyes stinging again. Perhaps the track of tears will run into his hairline if he holds fast, keeps his breath steady. One last, measured inhale timed with Flint’s approach. Silver wills his eyes to dry before the sound of Flint’s boots, the smell of his leathers, are too close.

‘More water?’ Flint asks.

Silver purses his lips, willing himself to meet Flint’s eyes. They are too piercing, as always, and he finds it easier to look at the golden lashes caught by the morning sunlight. How rare, to find something soft on Flint’s face.

‘Ah,’ Silver murmurs. ‘Rather the opposite problem, actually.’

That’s as much as he can suggest aloud. He lets Flint’s gaze follow his down to the bucket, hoping the flush that resurges on his face will go unnoticed.

‘I see,’ Flint says, and he shrugs off his jacket.

Silver begins to inch himself forward, a renewed urge to prove he can do at least some of this himself. He comes precariously close to pitching onto the floor when Flint arrives at his side, ducking under Silver’s left shoulder and pulling the arm around himself. ‘Easy there,’ he tells Silver.

Silver grunts in frustration, because Flint’s right but he won’t admit as much in words. Words, he can keep private, if not _this._

Silver grips Flint’s shoulder, fingers hooking into the collarbone, and lets his foot hit the floor. He gasps at the sheer fucking novelty of gravity. His hip presses into Flint’s thigh, left leg hanging loose and ugly between them. Flint’s arm is around his waist, steadying Silver as he removes his right hand from the mattress, sacrificing the balance it gave him.

‘Take your time,’ Flint reminds him.

‘How much more time do you think I could be taking?’ Silver spits, and his voice quavers too much for it to have any venom.

Silver twists, trying to nudge the bucket with his heel. He lets his hair hang in a curtain over his face, an easy place to hide. Flint intuits his plan, and steers the bucket into a better spot. Silver rucks his shirt up, and Flint wriggles his right hand to collect the bunched fabric at Silver’s waist.

Fine. It’s fine. He’s ready.

He’s not ready.

‘Just… give me a minute.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ Flint tells him. Flint’s voice is perfectly neutral, neither pitying nor exasperated.

It’s ridiculous. Silver must have pissed in front of men a thousand times in the past. Had he been asked a month ago, privacy was a luxury he’d rank low among his pleasures. He was not precious, he was not impractical. He was not _shy._

Beside him is the scourge of the Caribbean, the man who razed Charles Town—once a pearl in Queen Anne’s navy, if Silver has guessed right, now a monster the shape of a man. And here he is, a beacon of patience and pragmatism.

A sharp pang digs into his side, lest he forget why he’s here. Silver swallows thickly, trying to clear his head of everything except what needs to be done. He takes his prick in his hand and thinks only about aiming. Not the rise and fall of Flint’s chest beside him. The knuckles that rest on his bare waist. How, if Silver turned his head, his nose would brush the shell of Flint’s ear.

He exhales and finally, _finally,_ a thrill of relief courses through him. The sound of water hitting the bucket is loud enough to make him cringe, but it’s too difficult to stop now. His face is on fire but he can hide beneath his hair. He’s reached the closest approximation of standing upright since Charles Town.

The things he counts as blessings these days.

Two cups felt like a gallon inside him, but it takes little time to pass. He shakes himself dry and nudges Flint to let go of the shirt. For a blissful moment it feels like every other tension inside him has been released, and he fancies asking Flint for a tour of the cabin.

But Silver has pushed his luck well beyond its limits of late, so he only sighs. Flint straightens himself—Silver hadn’t realised he’d had to stoop—and the motion lifts Silver back onto the mattress.

‘Thank you,’ Silver mumbles, or perhaps his lips move without sound. His throat is tight with embarrassment as he shuffles himself back into the alcove.

‘Whenever you need,’ Flint’s voice is gruff. He takes the bucket without complaint, and returns with it empty. Then he picks up the notebook he’d originally come to collect, and hesitates on his way out. He plucks a book from the shelf and sets it down on Silver’s crate.

‘I don’t know if it’s your taste,’ he tells Silver. ‘But it’s in English.’

Silver nods. His throat feels dry again.

The door closes behind Flint and Silver collapses on the mattress. He’s stiff from holding himself upright for so long, and the effort of easing down gently seemed too much. He regrets it immediately, his leg screaming complaints and his chest beading with sweat. The tears of embarrassment easily remake themselves as tears of pain. He grinds his teeth and buries his face in the blanket and gasps wetly, overwhelmed and impossibly alone.

Dobbs. Withers. Christophé. Smyth. Jukes. Ánibal. LaRochelle. Little Dave. Darby. DeGroot.

Those are the ten names he would have given. He recites them to himself, never letting a single one past his lips. But they are there, on the tip of his tongue, every time he thinks it will hurt too much to bear. In his mind they become a string of syllables, a spell that would have healed him and made him whole. It would have been so easy.

He could have been someone else.

 

*

 

Silver’s eyes snap open. The hangnail moon is low and red, too thin to be reflected in the ocean. It takes a moment for him to comprehend why he’s looking the water, since he switched his pillow to the opposite end of the bed for a better view of the cabin. He lies still, breathing, while his body drafts its latest map of aches for him. All of them old, the same ones that settled in before nightfall and mean to continue dully for as longs as they please. So, for once, it wasn’t pain that woke him.

Something else. A sound in the dark, high and short. Small. Hushed, even. A whimper that isn’t his own, for once.

Silver remains still, facing the window and listening. It’s not the sound Flint makes when he grieves: Silver knows that sound, and somehow that felt more intimate than this. This is another kind of intimacy. A better kind.

A part of him delights in the knowledge that the Captain has his own weaknesses. It’s a cruel thought, but one easier for Silver to turn over in his mind. He can cling to the sacrifices in privacy, in dignity, that someone else is forced to make, and assure himself he is not the only one to suffer. That his body is not the only one to betray him with its needs.

He can consider these things, and forestall acknowledging the other reasons he might feel delight at the sound of Flint’s pleasure.

Flint is attractive; this was never a fact Silver had any reason to dispute. Silver had fancied seducing him, first for survival when they hunted the Urca, and then simply for fun. Flint had… well, not _reciprocated,_ but he’d _not reciprocated_ in a way that suggested he was putting considerable effort into not reciprocating. It was something Silver had put away to exploit at some later opportunity. An opportunity lost, now that he is… _this._

At least he can eavesdrop. Flint’s whimpers are erratic, bitten-back, and high-pitched. They sound so lovely because they are unbidden, little pleasures too quick for Flint to catch them and silence them. He’s grown too comfortable in a captain’s cabin, Silver muses, and has lost his knack for silence.

A younger, fresh-faced John Silver might have imagined himself as the cause of those noises. He might have dropped to his knees, when he could, and let Flint pull his hair and fuck his face. He might have buried his nose in the thicket of red hair—Silver has stolen glimpses of it as Flint changes clothes—and moaned when Flint touched Silver’s cheek to feel the shape of his cock inside it. And when Silver glanced up wide-eyed to meet Flint’s hooded gaze until Flint couldn’t hold back his orgasm: would he swallow every drop of it as Flint filled him, or would Flint drag Silver’s head back and splatter all over his face, marking him as Flint’s?

Silver’s cock throbs as he thinks it, a startling reminder of its existence. It’s a relief, or something like it, to know he can still feel something. Not _with_ anyone, he’s admitted as much to himself, but to have it consigned to no other duty than pissing would be a fate too dire for Silver to contemplate.

But a feeling other than pain, even if it’s only a stirring as his cock stubbornly refuses to fill, is new and old at once.

Flint’s breath crescendoes into a fractured series of bursts, and he comes so quietly that Silver might have missed it if he hadn’t been waiting. He cannot take his own pleasure, but Flint’s—well, that’s something. He’s not sure what, but _something._

The hangnail moon turns white as it rises, until it slips above the window to leave Silver with the black sea beneath it.

*

The squall tosses the ship like a cat playing with a mouse. Silver is, as usual, left to be flung from one side of the bed to the other. It’s nauseating to read and too tumultuous to sleep, so he hums a song to himself. The rhythm is approximate to that of the waves, in some vain hope it will help him stay balanced.

Flint has been on deck for hours, and has likely deposed the coxswain to steer them through it. Silver imagines he can hear that barking voice through the wood, echoing the groan of the ship and the roar of the waves. He wouldn’t mind being up there, watching for the swell and letting the water splash his face. Right now, he’d take any distraction from the increasingly difficult problem that comes with having drunk a jug of water that morning.

He’s managed on his own, once or twice, and has _insisted_ on managing alone on the occasions he’s been able to keep down food. But there’s no fucking way he’s going to be able to hold himself upright on seas like this. At least he didn’t eat breakfast, but he might have lost it anyway. Not even the bucket shows a good chance of staying upright.

He swears a blue streak in every language he knows. He tries grabbing the arm of the chair Flint has left beside his bed, and is hurled bodily against the wall for his trouble. Fine. It’s time his right side got its share of a battering.

There’s no amount of denial or propriety that’s going to make this go away. He’s perfectly aware of that, unable to forget with the clenching tightness that’s starting to change from uncomfortable to painful. His options are to hurt himself attempting to piss alone in the middle of a storm, to call out for Flint and hope to be struck by lightning before being forced to admit why, or to let his discomfort run rampant until a third option appears. It’s an easy choice, really: he’s no stranger to discomfort. He tells the pain in his belly it can get in line with the rest of the aches and stings and prickles and hurts that define him now.

He shuffles to the foot of the bed, chewing the inside of his lip. If there were something else to keep him occupied, he’d take it. But the song drifts in and out of his head while he clutches at his own hair, pulling it away from his face as he begins to sweat. He lets his fingers catch in the curls and pull at his scalp, just for something else to feel, something to think about while he waits. He frees the damp tufts at the back of his neck, steering the bulk of the curls over his right shoulder and twisting them loosely until they secure themselves there. A rivulet of sweat trickles down his throat, as light and tricky as a lover’s touch. The last thing he needs to feel right now.

A minute passes, and then five more. There’s nothing for it. His choices have narrowed to making a mess of the bed or a mess of the floor, and he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor. He hates this, he _hates_ it, and he’d rather suffocate himself with a pillow than have Flint look at him like a naughty puppy. He inches as far off the bed as he can manage, reaching around to grab the iron candlestick on the wall. Its coarse edges graze his palm, and he kicks the crate as far from him as he can. There’s nothing to grab with his right hand except the mattress.

Two knocks. Silver sags with relief and almost goes sliding down onto the floor.

‘Christ,’ Flint mutters, slamming the door shut behind him and hauling Silver up by the armpits. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it _look_ like?’ Silver snarls. ‘It wasn’t like there were options.’

‘Alright,’ Flint admits. ‘I’m sorry. I should have come to—’

‘—I’m not a _child,’_ Silver interrupts. ‘You’re not my nurse, you’re my captain.’

‘Hm,’ Flint says. An odd sound, one Silver can’t interpret. It feels like his ears are ringing with urgency at this point.

Flint’s movement has become practiced, tucking his shoulder into Silver’s armpit and pulling Silver’s shirt tight. Silver aligns himself hurriedly and the sheer release means he forgets to be embarrassed. Perhaps he groans a little, but it can’t be helped, and it might mask the sound besides. He sinks in Flint’s arms, his breath shuddering as he empties himself. His eyes are shut tight and he squeezes his cock lightly, just to deepen the pressure before the bliss of its easing. Perhaps his thumb swipes near the head. He may have been driven to delirium.

His neck prickles. He opens his eyes, and realises Flint’s face is tilted toward him. With Silver’s hair bundled over the other shoulder, nothing stops Flint’s breath where it rushes over Silver’s throat, sharp and uneven. Flint is too close for Silver to guess where he’s looking.

If his face heats again, nothing will hide it from Flint. If Flint’s watching him touch his cock as he pisses… however he expected that thought to end, it wasn’t with another errant twitch of his cock.

He needs this to stop. He needs his body to obey him, just for once, for-fucking- _once_ while Flint is nestled beside him, holding him. While Flint’s thumb brushes his naked waist, sending a shiver through him.

But pleasure has been too rare and Silver is too selfish not to snatch it as it passes. Because he’s someone who never considers the consequences, apparently. Because Flint’s breathing is as stilted as his own, tickling Silver’s throat, and when Silver glances down Flint’s knuckles are white around the fabric of Silver’s shirt. And Silver finished a minute ago so now they’re both just standing there, suspended, breathless, with no good reason except the obvious one.

Silver swallows, and Flint seems to startle, extricating himself. He keeps his back turned while Silver gets the shirt readjusted and the blanket in his lap. Silver clears his throat, and Flint takes it as a prompt to fill the jug and set the crate close by Silver’s side again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Flint announces, and Silver feels the blood drain from his face. ‘For not checking, during the squall. I’ll be there. Next, when you…’

‘… need,’ Silver finishes, lest the moment drag longer than either of them can bear.

Flint, at least, has the excuse to depart rapidly with the bucket. Silver pretends to be asleep when he returns. He listens to Flint, and knows from days of having nothing else to think about that Flint’s pattern is wrong. He’s moving restlessly around the cabin, to the bookshelf and then the bed, to the desk and the door and back. Then the flicker of a candle being lit; the glow behind Silver’s eyelids as Flint settles in the chair beside Silver’s bed. It’s not as comfortable as the chair at the desk, which faces away from Silver most of the time. So it’s chosen for another reason, then.

*

Hours of solitude leave Silver with nothing to contemplate but Flint. To wonder what Flint thinks about that makes him whimper.

He’s seen the way Flint looks at Billy’s arms, and he gets the sense that Flint’s prickliness is not an expression of a preference for women, more just a fundamental prickliness of character. Of course, an appreciation of Billy’s arms is no indicator of anything other than Flint having functioning eyes, let alone a clue to how Flint might regard Silver. His regard for Silver before was a vicious thing. Flint never pressed himself to Silver without pressing a knife—or words as cruel as a knife—even closer. But Silver remembers the hand on his mouth, the grip on his throat, as if Flint had branded him. And while the idea of being marked might have frightened him once, now it feels like something adjacent to being _wanted._

He wonders whether this is the closest thing he can expect to intimacy, and that’s why he’s starting to long for it. Maybe it’s the closest thing he’ll get to fucking someone, being half-naked beside Flint with his cock in his hand. It means he can dismiss the flush, the thrill, and the relief as echoes of sex. The idea is appealing, but a little too convenient for lying to himself. It’s something else. Something tangled in the proximity of Flint, the aching need to be touched, and the terrifying vulnerability of it all. How human it feels, to have _shame,_ to have something of his own worth keeping secret, even as he’s forced over and over to divulge that secret to Flint..

That might be why he thinks so covetously of Flint: for the sake of having something else he can keep to himself. A preoccupation, a captivation. A burning fucking need to be touched and taken care of without condescension, with a memory of something that might have been desire once.

He might once have been something that made Flint whimper.

*

Flint uses his right hand. Silver has watched enough times to have learned this. Silver’s sleep is still too light and Flint’s breath still too heavy for Silver not to be woken by Flint pleasuring himself. Flint stills if he suspects Silver is conscious, so Silver must move at a glacial pace if he wants a decent view.

This time, he has awoken on his side, a perfect vantage point from which to observe. Flint is on his back, the outline of the tented sheet giving Silver all manner of details about the pace Flint likes: rough, quickening then slowing like a tide. Flint will slow until his hand almost stills, a knee kicking up until he’s thrusting into his fist more than jerking himself, a teasing game that ends with Flint’s spine lifting from the mattress a shudder coursing through him, his hand never stopping until Silver thinks it must _hurt._

But tonight. Flint speeds up and stalls, grunting with a different kind of frustration than the self-inflicted variety—the latter sound, Silver has perfectly memorised by now. Flint’s hips thump down on the bed so hard Silver worries it will swing and thump into the wall. But Flint appears to be reaching over his head, the faint starlight catching a halo of fuzz around his forearm. His hand disappears into the nook above his head and returns with something shining that Silver can’t quite make out. Then Flint’s other hand appears, and Silver has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from reacting. It’s a vial, and Flint is drizzling oil over his left fingers with a practiced sort of efficiency. The bottle vanishes between the sheets and Flint rolls slowly onto his right side. Facing Silver.

Silver has to trust he’s silhouetted too deeply by the stars behind him for Flint to catch the gleam of Silver’s eyes. Because Silver cannot look away for a moment of this, as Flint props up one knee and slips his left hand behind himself. A heartbeat later—or, more realistically, twelve of Silver’s heartbeats in rapid succession—Flint inhales, a quiet noise that fills the entire room. His shoulders shudder and then relax, a sinuous process that Silver can follow down the faint shape of his body under the sheets. Flint’s chin is tipped up, his expression lost somewhere, the sound of his breath rapid and uneven. Flint’s hips move, grinding backward, and a ruffling of the sheet suggests that he’s brought his right hand back to his cock.

And, well, any doubt Silver had that his own cock could still get hard is out the goddamn window, along with any cogent thought and _the ability to fucking breathe._ He’s so hard he’s leaking, and he can smell his own arousal as he inhales slowly, slowly, silently.

Because Flint gives a long sigh of satisfaction and rocks between his fingers and his fist, fucking himself with in a way Silver is suddenly certain is practiced. Because god, Silver would bet his share of the Urca gold that Flint has done this a thousand times, that Flint _loves_ this, and that every whimper Silver has heard since this cabin became his home has been a plea for this.

To give his right arm any freedom Flint has to rise off the bed a little, pivoted into a position that’s halfway to being up on his knees. The sheet twists around him, pulled down to his waist. It reveals heaving shoulders, and Silver can paint the memory of freckles onto them. Silver tastes blood in his mouth where he’s bitten through, and thank fuck for that because it gives him something to swallow.

Flint comes with a hitching sob, his face crushed against the pillow and barely muffling the sound. He keeps fucking himself, the muscle of his left arm twitching in the shadows.

Silver’s cock is dripping and his body feels as taut as a wire. He’s not sure he could move if he dared. And then, he must have slipped back into a dream or be hallucinating or finally gone mad from the pain, because he’d swear Flint’s eyes glimmer in the dark as they catch Silver’s.

No—impossible. Silver’s face is too deep in shadow, he assures himself, and Flint is only checking again now that his sense are returned. That’s all.

Flint’s shoulder rolls as he pulls himself free. His lips part and Silver mirrors him, his mouth falling open. He can’t remember what it feels like to breathe.

 

*

Flint is watching him.

Silver burns to ask, but he won’t. He won’t say anything. It’s strange enough for this to be routine, and speaking might upset the fragile—and literal—balance they have reached. So Silver finishes emptying his bladder and stares at Flint’s face, at his downcast eyes. Flint must believe him occupied by the task at hand, but thank-fucking-god his aim hasn’t suffered with the loss of his leg. So Flint can be the one who’s preoccupied by Silver’s prick for a change. And he is preoccupied, judging by the flare in his nostrils, the twitch of his lip, a slight shift in his brow as Silver adjusts his grip in such a way that flaunts his girth.

Silver feels Flint’s chest rise and fall unsteadily. It’s Flint who sighs when Silver finishes.

‘That’s it,’ Flint murmurs to Silver, almost a purr. And _fuck,_ now Silver’s the one watching Flint, fixated by the slight bulge of his trousers. Silver’s grasp on Flint’s shoulder must be hurting, while Flint’s fingers are feather-light as they trace Silver’s ribs, twisting Silver’s shirt an inch higher. So there’s no concealing the way Silver’s stomach draws tight and his prick twitches in his hand. Silver tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he grinds the heel of his hand against the base of his cock, willing it to stop reacting to Flint’s attention. He prays to a god he’s certain doesn’t exist that Flint won’t notice a new kind of wetness drawn from the slit.

But Flint’s eyes have fluttered shut. His nose is so close to the tendon in Silver’s throat that it makes his hair stand on end. As though Flint is scenting him. Silver can’t hold back a shiver as Flint’s exhalation fans over his skin. Flint’s fingers splay at Silver’s side and Silver practically leaps in shock, but Flint’s other hand comes around to balance him. Flint turns until he’s chest-to-chest with Silver, and Silver blinks down at him in surprise, but Flint doesn’t meet his gaze.

Flint’s right hand wraps around Silver’s left thigh and Silver lets out something that sounds too much like a yelp, then Flint lifts him off the floor and sets him solidly on the bed.

Silver is still gaping like a fish as Flint crouches between Silver’s legs. Then Flint stands, holding the bucket, and takes it out of the cabin.

Silver bites the meat of his palm and screams. Then he drinks a gallon of water, because he’s fucking thirsty.

*

Silver wakes gasping from a nightmare, his limbs tangled in the blanket and his wound stinging. He throws the blanket off his face and gulps for air. The sun is searing hot on his face. His shirt is twisted around his middle, his hands stuck inside the sleeves. He’s clammy with sweat, the damp fabric sticking to him. He fights so hard to yank it over his head that he almost pitches onto the floor.

Finally he’s free, fresh sweat beading on his chest where the sun hits him. He pushes the window as wide as it will go, but the tropical heat is just as cloying outside. He’d like to just drop into the sea, plunge down into the cold and dark where he’d never have to face the crew again. But he only bundles the shirt up into a soggy ball and tosses it to the floor. He tucks himself as far into a shady corner as he can, picking up the book Flint left him.

He’s halfway through a chapter when two knocks announce the Captain’s arrival.

Flint doesn’t greet Silver. He shrugs himself out of his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair, then unbuttons his shirt halfway down. Silver pretends to be interested in his book until Flint approaches, taking the jug on Silver’s crate and tipping some of the water into his cupped hand. Silver stares as Flint splashes it over his face, scooping a little into his mouth. Flint sighs, tugging his hair loose from its tie and running two handfuls of water through it. Water drips off his beard and down his neck, his hair slicked in tendrils that kink but don’t quite curl at the ends. A droplet falls off one and Silver’s mouth opens as if to catch it. Flint looks up and Silver’s mouth shuts.

‘It’s just as bad on deck,’ Flint comments. ‘At least in here there’s shade.’

 _‘At least,_ like fuck,’ Silver mutters. ‘Are you going to take me up there so I can see for myself?’

Flint snorts dismissively. He glances up at Silver again, and this time his eyes linger on Silver’s chest. They trail along Silver’s waist to his hip, then his thigh where the book is propped up.

‘Where’s your shirt?’ Flint’s voice comes out a little rough.

Silver gestures with the book, its spine pointing toward the lump on the floor. It draws Flint’s gaze just the way he hoped.

‘It won’t dry easily,’ Flint warns him. ‘Everything’s damp today.’

‘Just promise me the men won’t lick it clean,’ Silver grumbles.

‘They’re not…’ Flint sighs, abandoning the argument. ‘Do you want one of mine in the meantime?’

‘No,’ Silver answers too quickly. He takes a measured breath. ‘I’ll wait.’

Because Flint sees him half-naked every day, but somehow this is different. When all Silver can wear is a shirt and a blanket, the absence of both is somehow more pronounced. The way Flint looks at him has shifted from a disaffected efficiency into something less rational, something heated and brimming with potential. His eyes roam across Silver and for a fleeting, stupid minute, it feels like Silver is whole.

Silver scowls. It’s wishful thinking, a fucking absurd train of thought that anchors itself in nothing beside the half-mad boredom that makes him ache for any change in his circumstances.

‘Want to fill this before I go?’ Flint inclines his head toward the bucket.

‘No,’ Silver snaps. ‘I’m not so hopeless that I need you telling me when to piss.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Flint turns away, Silver’s venom sliding off him like water. ‘There’s no shame in it.’

Silver’s face feels like it’s burning. The pressure in his chest explodes.

’No, there is, there fucking _is!_ Just let me have that, will you? I might have nothing’—he doesn’t mention the share of the gold that awaits him in Nassau—‘but I’ll have pride. I had pride enough to save the men out there and I paid a heavy fucking cost for it, so you’ll forgive me if I cling to what’s left of it just a little fucking longer.’

Flint has pivoted to face him, one eyebrow raised in surprise. He’s looking away, not avoiding Silver but thinking. He nods. ‘I see.’

Silver keeps going, because Flint _doesn’t_ see and he’s got nothing to do except get angry. ‘If I were _shameless_ I’d do it on the floor like a _dog_ but no, I do _this_ with you every day because I need something that feels like humanity, alright?’

And then he stumbles over a whole new kind of shame. He never gave the ten names but he _has_ betrayed the crew in another way. It’s a kind of guilt that doesn’t go away, that just digs its way into him and shows every intent of staying. It’s not like the heat and tension of being exposed in front of Flint. It doesn’t feel good at all, no thrill to it. Just a promise that it will steal the last of that pride that has held the pieces of him together, that he would never be welcome in this godforsaken cabin again and Flint might be able to look him in the eye after helping Silver piss but he’d never even look at Silver if he knew about the gold.

‘Alright,’ Flint answers.

‘I just want the chance to feel something, even if that feeling is _exposed,_ even if it’s with _you,_ because _it doesn’t hurt,’_ Silver gasps, realising his voice has cracked. He feels more naked than he did when Flint walked in.

‘Alright,’ Flint repeats, and then he walks out. Because he can. It’s what he does.

*

When Flint returns, it’s with a peace offering. He sets the bottle of rum down on Silver’s crate and Silver almost snatches it up. He bites the cork out with his teeth, and considers necking it from the bottle when he sees Flint is heading back to the door.

‘Wait,’ Silver says around the cork. He spits it out when Flint stills. ‘Have some.’

Flint nods. His shirt is glued to his back with sweat, and his hair has begun to turn wild from moisture. He collects his cup from the desk and places it next to Silver’s on the crate. Silver pours them each a cup, staying focused on keeping level with the sway of the ship. It’s difficult, when Flint is tugging his shirt off and kicking his boots away, until he’s sprawling on the chair facing Silver’s bed in only his breeches. He picks up his cup and tilts it toward Silver’s in a wordless toast. Silver lifts his own cup, tries to speak, and then decides the better of it, draining his rum in one gulp.

A different kind of warmth, a welcome one, creeps through his insides. ’Thanks,’ it’s easier to say when his tongue is wetted.

‘You’re welcome,’ Flint says, holding the cup close to his mouth between sips. ’Though I wonder if I should have brought some sooner.’

‘I suspect I’d have bitten your head off,’ Silver confesses. ‘If you came any sooner.’

Flint smirks, finishing his cup and placing it down. ‘I meant sooner than today. You might not have bitten me in the first place.’

Silver notices the slight rephrasing. He doesn’t know what to do with it, but he notices.

‘You could have left me down in the crew’s quarters,’ Silver mumbles, refilling his cup.

‘What, and be seen keeping this monstrous cabin to myself, when the beloved quartermaster was in need?’ Flint snorts. ‘No, there’s plenty of room for you here.’

Room for your moods, Silver infers. Room for Flint’s, as well, perhaps.

‘And besides,’ Flint says quietly, his words almost lost beneath the sound of the rum as he pours another cup. ‘I’m… not my best, left alone.’

‘Nor I,’ Silver nods, hiding behind his cup. It’s flippant, maybe, but easier than dealing with the raw honesty of Flint’s statement.

‘Well, then,’ Flint’s voice gains a gruff edge. ‘You are welcome here.’

He leans back, and Silver almost chokes on rum at the breadth of those freckled shoulders, the heft of that furred chest. Flint tilts his head to one side, noticing Silver’s attention. The cup moves in circles as Flint’s wrist twirls thoughtfully.

Silver licks his lips. They are suddenly bone-dry, and he wets them with more rum, perhaps more than he means to. Flint holds his cup forward, matching Silver drink for drink.

‘So,’ Silver proposes. ‘Tell me something.’

‘Tell you what?’ Flint grins. His thumb rubs idly over his breeches.

‘Literally fucking anything that’s happening outside this cabin,’ Silver rolls his eyes.

Flint’s eyebrows raise. He lifts his foot and thumps his heel down twice on the floor. ‘First item…’

Silver laughs. And oh, it’s been a while since he’s done that.

The rum unsnarls all the prickly little thoughts that had begun to clamour inside him. They finish the bottle between them, Flint only appearing altered in a brighter spot on each cheekbone, and a laxity in his slouch. Silver feels as though he’s finally found the rhythm of the warship, easing to and fro as it rocks him. The lantern has burned low, casting a different set of shadows on Flint’s face. Silver steals another glance while he can: every visible inch of Flint is red with hair or freckles. He commits them to memory as he takes the bottle, tipping it up to catch the last few drops on his tongue. He’s still naked, but Flint has been subtle about taking any notice of the fact. Not so subtle that Silver hasn’t caught him watching, but subtle.

Silver puts the bottle down a little harder than he intended to. Flint releases a long sigh through his nose and sits up, palms on his thighs, before getting slowly to his feet.

‘Night,’ he says to Silver, slightly too close in a way that forces Silver to look up to meet his eye.

‘Mm,’ Silver replies, and the rum has made his smile loose and slow. ‘Goodnight.’

Flint reaches out, clasping his shoulder briefly. The gesture is odd, too distant after the intimacy of drinking together. Flint’s hand vanishes too quickly, leaving in its wake a question of what might have happened if it remained. But Flint snuffs the lantern, and his footfalls tell Silver he’s climbing into bed.

Silver settles himself onto the mattress, still too hot to want the blanket. He ends up stretched facedown, arms tangled over his head. The brightness of the rum suffuses him. Silver clings to it while it holds the pain at bay, to the feeling of being in his skin without wanting to crawl out of it.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, the beginnings of sobriety ebbing back into his consciousness. He’s drawn out of introspection by a familiar sound: Flint. It’s closer to a moan than a whimper, lower and looser and less strained with secrecy. Silver stretches, pressing his body to the mattress and smiling as he listens. Flint sounds slower when he’s drunk. He’s teasing himself less, letting his pleasure unravel as it will, Silver imagines. It’s too dark and too risky to watch, but Silver has the memory of Flint undressed fresh in his mind, easy to match with the lazy rhythm of his breath.

Silver revels in it, his hips undulating to rut against the bed in time with Flint’s voice. It feels good, lust beginning to pool inside him, tightening into a feeling of—

— damn.

_Fuck._

Silver exhales sharply into the cloth, grinding his teeth. But now that he’s recognised the feeling, it only grows more insistent. He rolls onto his side but that only makes the tension more obvious. Perhaps he can wait. He can let Flint come and enjoy some rum-soaked afterglow, and catch him before he falls into a dead sleep. Silver steels himself. He can wait. He can wait.

Flint has fallen silent. Without any distraction, Silver thinks he’s going to go mad. It’s starting to hurt.

‘Captain.’

‘Hmm?’ Flint’s voice is gravelly in the dark, sharper than Silver expects.

‘I’m sorry,’ Silver grits his teeth, his jaw aching as much as his belly. ’The rum.’

‘I know,’ Flint says.

‘What did you say?’ Silver asks, his heart pounding in his ears.

‘I said _I know,’_ Flint replies levelly. His bed creaks as he rises from it. A match flares in the darkness. Flint lights a fresh candle, and pads over to Silver’s bed. He sets the candlestick down on the crate. Silver can’t help but notice how it illuminates Flint’s cock, still half-hard where it’s tucked back into his breeches. Flint turns, his back to Silver, positioning himself where he’d normally be to help Silver stand. Silver reaches awkwardly for Flint’s arm to clamber upright, and Flint grasps him firmly back. Silver struggles beside him, certain Flint will comment or react in some way to Silver’s ridiculous fumbling. But Flint says nothing, as if this is all perfectly normal, Silver tense and shaking and undeniably affected as he gets his arm over Flint’s shoulders and his foot touches the floor.

Silver is gasping by the time he’s ready, upright, his heart fluttering and his lungs tight. Flint’s right arm snakes around his waist even though there’s no shirt that needs holding. But Silver needs steadying, that’s true, so perhaps that’s what it is. Silver can almost rationalise the wide, possessive splaying of Flint’s fingers where they dig into his side. Perhaps it would also explain why Flint has tilted himself half-inward, so they’re no longer standing side-by-side but almost facing, Flint’s right thigh nudging its way behind Silver’s left.

Silver swallows thickly. His fingers quiver as he takes his cock in his hand.

And then Flint’s voice comes out in a growl, right in his ear. ‘That’s it.’

Silver’s cock pulses, reacting to Flint’s encouragement without any conscious thought on Silver’s part.

Silver opens his mouth to ask; _What?_ But there’s no air in him to make a sound. He blinks rapidly as he tries to summon the willpower to act, but Flint’s undivided attention has frozen him.

‘Come on,’ Flint says, and Silver feels the sound raise gooseflesh his neck. ‘Don’t let me down.’

Silver releases half a syllable that might be _‘fuck,’_ and finally there’s a trickle. Flint gasps, right beside Silver’s ear, his hand tightening on Silver’s waist.

It would be so easy to stop, Silver thinks, to shy away from Flint and deny this ever happened. As desperate as he is, as much as his belly is beginning to ache, he’s so overwhelmed he doesn’t know how he can bear to release the rest.

‘Tell me,’ Flint murmurs. ‘Did you always pet your cock like that when you piss?’

Silver gasps, and before he can answer, Flint continues: ‘Or is that just for me?’

His cock thickens and it’s almost too much for Silver to continue, but he pushes through, trying vainly to concentrate.

‘Look at you,’ Flint says. ‘You think I don’t see the tears in your eyes when you do this?’

 _‘What?’_ Silver whimpers, as if there’s anything else Flint could possibly mean. Flint’s left hand comes up to cup Silver’s jaw, blurring the lines of tears that have flowed there. ‘You think even in this light, I’ve missed that flush that starts in your hair and ends in your chest?’

His fingers follow the path he’s described, harsh over Silver’s throat and collarbones, dragging down to his nipple. Flint pinches sharply and Silver’s cock blurts. ‘And now I get to see how red you go all the way down,’ Flint says appreciatively.

True to his word, he continues until he reaches Silver’s abdomen. Silver writhes, hips tilting uselessly to meet Flint’s touch.

‘Don’t stop,’ Flint orders him. Silver whines in frustration, wanting to obey, but he’s too tense.

Flint’s hand presses down hard on his belly.

Silver howls, unable to resist as the stream of piss surges from him.

‘You want to feel _exposed?’_ Flint asks. ‘You _are._ You _have been._ I want you baring _everything_ for me. I want to see how it makes you weep, how you squirm when you think you can’t hold back anymore.’

Silver’s arm is looped around Flint’s neck, and he’s practically hanging off Flint now, clinging to him for dear life. Flint’s fingers dig in and it feels as good as coming, white-hot lust gushing from him.

Flint reaches down to wrap his hand around Silver’s prick, easily pushing Silver’s fingers out of the way. He holds Silver’s cock as he pisses and Silver is sobbing.

‘God,’ Flint growls. ‘The _smell_ of you, boy.’

 _‘Oh, fuck,’_ Silver cries. It’s too much. He can’t do this, not all of this, at once.

‘Don’t stop,’ Flint hisses. ‘I didn’t tell you to stop.’

‘I _can’t,’_ Silver confesses. He’s getting too hard to piss, the pressure too much.

Flint adjusts his grip, circling his thumb and forefinger around the base of Silver’s cock. ‘Then you don’t get hard until I say you’re ready.’

’N-no, Captain, please,’ Silver begs. Flint squeezes tighter and Silver pushes desperately, trying to keep the stream steady at Flint’s command.

‘Say no again if you mean it,’ Flint’s touch eases, and Silver presses his forehead into Flint’s, gasping.

‘Nnnnnh— _please,’_ he begs. ‘Please, oh _god, please, Captain…’_

His cock is leaking as much with precome as it is with piss, hurting with effort. He writhes, trying to keep himself from losing his aim, from letting his Captain down. And then finally, he’s empty, crying into Flint’s shoulder as the stream becomes a spurting, declining trickle, until the sound of it is only an echo in Silver’s ears, ringing with his shallow breath.

Flint finally lets go and Silver’s cock slaps wetly against his belly. Silver grunts, the power of speech lost somewhere, his face dropping into Flint’s chest.

‘That’s it, boy,’ Flint says, and Silver thinks he might die if Flint calls him that again. ‘You’re not finished yet.’

Silver nods, dizzy but conscious of the way his cock aches for more.

‘You wanna know how hard it gets me?’ Flint asks. He grabs Silver’s hand and shoves it against his crotch. Flint cock is like steel, jumping as Silver palms it. ‘I know you watch me. I know you love to listen.’

Silver whines, repeating thickly: ‘I, I love to—’

‘You’re gonna make me come,’ Flint tells him, and Silver can’t even imagine anything except obeying. ‘Then you get to come.’

He fumbles to free Flint from his breeches, sucking in a heavy breath when he succeeds. He strokes Flint’s cock and Flint makes that lovely sound, the one Silver has only heard from the far side of the cabin. Silver remembers how he likes it, slow then quick, building and then teasing. Flint talks him through it as he does, praising him— _that’s it, that’s my boy—_ and scolding him— _you little shit, give it to me_ —as Silver alters his pace. Silver is backed onto the bed until he’s sitting firmly on the mattress, Flint half-mounting him, thrusting into his hand. Flint snarls, and this time when he comes it’s _loud,_ nothing like the stuttered sounds he makes with himself. He roars as he splatters Silver with come, hand coming down to smear it across Silver’s chest. He scoops it onto his fingers and shoves them in Silver’s mouth, making Silver moan pitifully as he licks them clean.

‘Now,’ Flint says, reaching between them and pumping Silver’s cock. It throbs in Flint’s grasp, slicking itself messily for him. ‘Eyes open,’ Flint orders him: Silver hadn’t realised they were shut.

‘Come, boy,’ Flint purrs, his touch relentless on Silver’s cock. ‘Come for me.’

Silver utters a broken plea, his body thrumming with need.

‘Captain’s orders,’ Flint growls, and his voice pulls Silver over the edge. He thinks he might scream, but he only knows from Flint’s hand clamping over his mouth. His blood rushes in his ears like he’s underwater. And Flint is there, easing him through it, cradling him as his body gives everything to Flint.

Flint’s clean hand strokes Silver’s hair off his face. He pets Silver as Silver catches his breath, coming back to himself. Flint steps out of his breeches and uses them to wipe Silver clean. Silver reaches feebly for Flint, trying to pull him onto the mattress.

‘Not yet,’ Flint reminds him. ‘Not yet, but I’ll be right over there. So close, you’ll hear me. I know you hear me.’

Silver nods, but his hand still paws at Flint. Flint catches his fingers and squeezes them before he snuffs the candle out.

‘Next time, you fuck me,’ Flint promises. And when he says that, nothing hurts.

A promise like that might be worth all the gold in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> 'and Silver went so far into subspace he gave away five million dollars' the end
> 
> Tell me if you enjoyed this: we're all in hell together now.


End file.
